Green Glass Beads Read online

Your Grandmother

  Remember, remember, there’s many a thing

  your grandmother doesn’t dig

  if it ain’t got that swing;

  many a piece of swag

  she won’t pick up and put in her bag

  if it seems like a drag.

  She painted it red – the town –

  she lassooed the moon.

  Remember, remember, your grandmother

  boogied on down.

  Remember, remember, although your grandmother’s old,

  she shook, she rattled, she rolled.

  She was so cool she was cold,

  she was solid gold.

  Your grandmother played it neat,

  wore two little blue suede shoes

  on her dancing feet –

  oo, reet-a-teet-teet –

  Remember, remember, your grandmother

  got with the beat.

  Remember, remember, it ain’t what you do

  it’s the way that you do it.

  Your grandmother knew it –

  she had a balloon and she blew it,

  she had a ball

  and was belle of it

  just for the hell of it.

  She was Queen of the night.

  Remember, remember, your grandmother’s

  aaaaaaaaaaaallllllll riiiiiiiiiiiight.

  Carol Ann Duffy

  Rooty Tooty

  Grandad used to be a pop star,

  with a red-and-silver guitar.

  He wore leather jackets and drainpipe jeans.

  He drove around in limousines,

  waving to screaming fans.

  Fab! said Grandad. Groovy!

  I really dig it, man!

  Grandad used to have real hips,

  he swivelled and did The Twist.

  His record went to Number One.

  Grandad went like this:

  Rooty tooty, yeah yeah.

  Rooty tooty, yeah yeah.

  Rooty tooty, yeah yeah.

  Then Grandad met Gran.

  Gran was dancing under a glitterball.

  Grandad was on bass.

  He noticed how a thousand stars

  sparkled and shone in her face.

  And although Gran fancied the drummer,

  Grandad persevered. He wrote Gran

  a hundred love songs

  down through their happy years.

  Grandad used to be a pop star,

  a rock’n’roll man –

  Rooty tooty, yeah yeah yeah –

  and Grandad loved groovy Gran,

  Carol Ann Duffy

  Grandpa’s Soup

  No one makes soup like my Grandpa’s,

  with its diced carrots the perfect size

  and its diced potatoes the perfect size

  and its wee soft bits –

  what are their names? –

  and its big bit of hough,

  which rhymes with loch, floating

  like a rich island in the middle of the soup sea.

  I say. Grandpa, Grandpa, your soup is the

  best soup in the whole world.

  And Grandpa says, Och,

  which rhymes with hough and loch,

  Och, don’t be daft,

  because he’s shy about his soup, my Grandpa.

  He knows I will grow up and pine for it.

  I will fall ill and desperately need it.

  I will long for it my whole life after he is gone.

  Every soup will become sad and wrong after

  he is gone.

  He knows when I’m older I will avoid soup altogether.

  Oh Grandpa, Grandpa, why is your soup so glorious? I say,

  tucking into my fourth bowl in a day.

  Barley! That’s the name of the wee soft bits. Barley.

  Jackie Kay

  NYMPHS, MERMAIDS, FAIRIES, WITCHES – AND ONE GIANTESS

  Overheard on a Saltmarsh

  Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?

  Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them?

  Give them me.

  No.

  Give them me. Give them me.

  No.

  Then I will howl all night in the reeds,

  Lie in the mud and howl for them.

  Goblin, why do you love them so?

  They are better than stars or water,

  Better than voices of winds that sing,

  Better than any man’s fair daughter,

  Your green glass beads on a silver ring.

  Hush, I stole them out of the moon.

  Give me your beads, I want them.

  No.

  I will howl in a deep lagoon

  For your green glass beads. I love them so

  Give them me. Give them.

  No

  Harold Monro

  from Prothalamion

  There, in a meadow, by the river’s side,

  A flock of nymphs I chanced to espy,

  All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,

  With goodly greenish locks all loose untied,

  As each had been a bride;

  And each one had a little wicker basket,

  Made of fine twigs entrailèd curiously,

  In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket,

  And with fine fingers cropped full feateously

  The tender stalks on high.

  Of every sort, which in that meadow grew,

  They gathered some, the violet pallid blue,

  The little daisy that at evening closes,

  The virgin lily, and the primrose true,

  With store of vermeil roses,

  To deck their bridegrooms’ posies,

  Against the bridal day, which was not long:

  Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.

  Edmund Spenser

  Sabrina Fair

  Sabrina fair

  Listen where thou art sitting

  Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,

  In twisted braids of Lillies knitting

  The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair,

  Listen for dear honour’s sake,

  Goddess of the silver lake,

  Listen and save.

  John Milton

  The Mermaid

  I

  Who would be

  A mermaid fair,

  Singing alone,

  Combing her hair

  Under the sea,

  In a golden curl

  With a comb of pearl,

  On a throne?

  II

  I would be a mermaid fair;

  I would sing to myself the whole of the day.

  With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair;

  And still as I combed I would sing and say,

  ‘Who is it loves me? who loves not me?’

  I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall

  Low adown, low adown,

  And I should look like a fountain of gold

  Springing alone

  With a shrill inner sound,

  Over the throne

  In the midst of the hall.

  Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  The Merman

  I

  Who would be

  A merman bold,

  Sitting alone,

  Singing alone

  Under the sea,

  With a crown of gold,

  On a throne?

  II

  I would be a merman bold;

  I would sit and sing the whole of the day.

  I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power

  But at night I would roam abroad and play

  With the mermaids in and out of the rocks,

  Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower;

  And holding them back by their flowing locks

  I would kiss them often under the sea,

  And kiss them again till they kissed me

  Laughingly, laughingly;

  And then we would wander away, away,